Yeller

[This is a story I wrote several years ago]

***

Posted on a utility pole was a handmade sign that read, “LOST. Golden retriever, male, named Mungo. Last seen Dec.1. Snakeskin collar. $500 reward, no questions asked.” Stapled to the poster was a Polaroid of the dog with a big smile on his face, sitting next to a red-haired boy.

Mungo? What the hell kind of name for a dog is Mungo? And who puts a snakeskin collar on a dog? I mean, snakeskin is cool and everything, but I’m partial to zebra stripes myself. Five hundred bucks is a lot of money, though. Opportunist that I am, I tear the number from the bottom of the poster.


The house was an easy target. The two best ways to access a house are through a backyard window or a kitchen door. These people didn’t lock their garage doors. They might as well have left out milk and cookies, too.

There’s always the chance that some retiree in an older neighborhood will be looking out the window, watching what you’re doing. As long as your body language doesn’t give you away, it’s no problem. I stole a car while a couple of college kids watched from an apartment balcony once. I just walked up, slid the jimmy between the glass and door, popped the lock, and away I went.

I grabbed a screwdriver out of my backpack and jammed it against the deadbolt. The door had enough give to let me get the head in there and ease the bolt back.

As many houses as I’ve visited in this manner, I never get tired of the thrill I get when I first set foot inside. I shake a little, and my stomach is full of butterflies. Usually I can find a bottle of scotch or something tucked away for a quick hit to calm the nerves. Hell, I’ve been known to grab a snack.

I opened the fridge. A sandwich on a paper plate looked up at me. I took a bite. Tasted like chicken or something. I put it back and grabbed a Coke.

The place was decorated for Christmas, with a gold-leafed nativity set on top of the hi-fi. I crossed myself as I walked past. The Christmas tree was real, and I guess it was a cedar, because I began to sneeze. Damn. I’d have to make this fast.

A good burglar thinks small. These people had several big boxes under the tree, and there might have been VCRs and stuff in them, but it’s not like I can just carry that stuff out of a house. I opened my backpack and started stuffing all the smallest boxes I could find in there. Jewelry maybe. Money. Gift certificates. They’d still have plenty of stuff left.

I sneezed, knocking over my Coke.

“Damn!” I said as it soaked into the carpet. I zipped up the bag and left, grabbing another Coke and a bag of Funyons on my way out.

Dexter is my homey, a stylin’ black dude who doesn’t take chances like I do. He’s more like my supporting cast. He’ll wait for me in the van while I boost a car stereo or something. I still share the wealth with him, just for being there for me. And since this was Christmas and all, I told him he could have half of the stuff I took. Spirit of the season and all.

We were splitting a pizza with extra tomato sauce, drinking Cokes and watching Cops.

“Now see, Jesse, that brother would’ve got away with havin’ all that cheebah, but the cop saw his brakelights wasn’t workin’,” he said between bites.

“I know, man. It’s the nickel-and-dime parts that get you,” I said.

I grabbed my backpack and opened it up. The biggest box was on top. “Here you go, Dex,” I said. “Happy Kwanzaa.”

He laughed, tearing into the paper as I dumped the rest of the gifts on the table. His package was a shoebox. He frowned as he looked inside.

“What is it?” I asked.

Dexter pulled out a pair of fuzzy house shoes, the kind made to look like animal feet. They were covered with reddish-yellow fur.

“Well shit, man, at least see if they fit. I bet they’re warm.” I said, taking a bite of pizza.

“Man, no offense Jesse, but I ain’t interested. Let’s see what you got.” He put the box down.

I grabbed a tiny box and shook it.

“Ooooh,” said Dexter. “Jewelry, man. I’ll bet it’s one of those cubic circus things.”

I nodded. “That’s what I like about you, Dex. You’ve got a real sense of style.”

We got quiet as I tore open the paper. I opened the box.

“What is it? What is it?” asked Dex, sounding almost like my 10-year-old sister.

I took a long look before I pulled it out. We both stared at it.

“What is it?” he asked again.

“Ah, hell, I think it’s one of those rabbit’s foot keychains or something,” I said, holding it up. It was the same reddish-yellow color as the house shoes.

“Man, ain’t that kinda big to be a rabbit’s foot?” asked Dex.

I nodded.

And then, my heart almost stopped. I jumped up, dropping my pizza on the floor. I started digging around in my pockets.

“What the hell? What are you doing?” asked Dexter, guarding his pizza.

I found the scrap of paper and showed it to him.

“Mungo! Shit, it’s Mungo!” I yelled. I was jumping up and down in place, shivering, my thoughts rising like Phoenix over Arizona.

“What? What? Who’s Mungo?” asked Dexter as he stood up.

I threw down the phone number and grabbed another gift.

“Hey, it’s my turn, man,” said Dexter.

“Shush!”

I tore into the wrapping. Earmuffs. Reddish-yellow earmuffs. I dropped them, and I started to feel like I’d puke. I opened another package.

Gloves.

Another.

A fanny pack.

Another.

Twelve boxes in all, and every one contained something covered in reddish-yellow fur. Mungo fur.

Dexter and I stood there staring at the gifts and the shredded wrapping paper. He bent down.

“You missed one,” he said quietly, handing it to me.

I opened it slowly. I heard Dexter swallow as I lifted the lid. I didn’t see fur, and I felt relieved.

Jewelry. A gold herringbone necklace. I pulled it out, smiling. Dexter sighed.

I dropped the box. Hanging from the end was a tooth.

A dog tooth.

Dexter screamed exactly like my 10-year-old sister, and I finally lost my pizza, spewing red and yellow across the table, drenching most of the reddish-yellow gifts. I thought about the sandwich that tasted like chicken and puked again.

“Dude, you can’t do that,” said Dexter.

“Sure. Man, they butchered Mungo to make this stuff. This is some sort of sick Texas cult thing or something. I mean, maybe I broke into their house and all, but this ain’t right. They won’t know who I am. I’ll just ring the doorbell and front ‘em out, right there in broad daylight and all. Then I can go report them to the pigs autonomously.”

“Anonymously?” asked Dexter.

“That too.”

Only the shoes survived the spew, but I figured they were enough proof. We threw away the other stuff and dropped the bag in the dumpster on our way to the van.

“You think I can still get the reward if I give those people the shoes?” I asked Dexter.

I rang the doorbell, trying to think of what to say. Dexter and I stared at each other.

The door opened. I recognized the man from my surveillance. He was short and broad-shouldered, with blonde hair and a crewcut.

“Yes?” he said.

I didn’t know how to start.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

I reached into my backpack.

“How do you explain these?” I said, shaking the shoes in front of his face. My heart jumped, then raced triple-time in my chest.

No one said anything for a moment.

“Where did you get those?” asked the man quietly.

His wife came to the door. “Who are these guys?”

“They’re the people who stole our Christmas gifts,” said Crewcut. “Call the police.”

She turned to leave.

“Now just hold on there a second, lady,” I said. “I know where you got these shoes.”

She stopped and turned to face me. “Wal Mart?”

“Ha!” said Dexter, surprising us all. “Ha!” He was whiter than Donny Most.

“You have something you’d like to add?” asked Crewcut.

“Dumbo. You got them shoes from Dumbo, and we know it,” he said, nodding.

I sighed. “Mungo. He meant to say Mungo. We know you made your Christmas gifts out of Mungo.”

Crewcut laughed. “You mean that dog from the posters? The missing dog?”

He laughed louder, really letting go. Doubling over, he put his hands on his knees. His wife started to giggle too, hand over her mouth, eyes squeezed into little crescent moon shapes. She snorted a little when she inhaled, and that made them laugh harder.

“What’s so damn funny?” I shouted. Dexter was starting to chuckle.

I shot him a look. “Shut up, man. I don’t know what the shit is going on here, but it ain’t funny.”

“Whoo!” said the wife. She wiped her eyes.

“My son,” said Crewcut. “That stuff is for my son.”

I looked over his shoulder and saw the little guy playing in the living room floor.

“Okay, you killed Mungo to make a bunch of sick stuff for your kid. I’m calling the cops on you,” I said, jamming my finger into Crewcut’s chest. It didn’t give much.

The wife turned to leave, wiping tears from her eyes, giggling. “Oh, that’s rich,” she said.

Crewcut took a deep breath.

“Okay, let me explain something to you,” he said. “You ever heard of that movie Old Yeller, the one about the dog?”

Dexter nodded. “Oh yeah, man, that’s sad when that dog gets rabies.”

“Shut up!” I said.

“Well, my little boy in there loves that movie. He’s obsessed with it. He already wore out three copies of the video. All the gifts you took, those were things I spent a lot of time shopping for on the Internet. Some of that stuff came from an auction on a Japanese website. Do you have any idea how many yen the fanny pack set me back?” he asked, starting to sound angry.

Dexter and I stared at each other.

“What do we do, man? You puked all over his stuff.”

The finger was digging into my chest this time. It gave a lot.

“First, I’m going to kick your ass. Right now, my wife is writing down the license plate number on your van. After that, she’s going to call the cops,” he said, not laughing anymore.

And time slowed down for me. I heard my heart racing in my ears, and thought I could feel my Tommy Hilfinger shirt swaying to the rhythm. I was suddenly aware of everything, from my toes in my shoes to the cobwebs above the door. Dexter’s stomach growled, and it sounded like Godzilla. Crewcut’s breath was blowing my hair. He smelled like a Philly cheesesteak sandwich.

Suddenly, there was Mungo, looking around the door at me, snakeskin collar and all. Crewcut looked down at him, then at me. His eyes got wide.

I threw the shoes at Dexter and grabbed the dog by the collar.

“Come on, Mungo!” I yelled. The dog cleared the steps with me as we leapt, hauling ass to the van. Dexter was right behind me, a reddish-yellow shoe in each hand. The dog was a natural-born fugitive, jumping into the van ahead of me. I put the keys in the ignition and glanced at the house. Crewcut was staring at his feet.

That family was happy to have their dog back, and I was happy to have the five hundred bucks, no questions asked. And these house shoes are warm, man.